


Women and Wine

by icearrows1200



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Gaston (Disney), Redemption, the glory of character development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icearrows1200/pseuds/icearrows1200
Summary: ...game and deceit, make the wealth small and the wants great. After falling to his doom from the castle top, Gaston is saved by the Enchantress, but at a cost: from thence forth he must live the life of a woman until he can both find and earn love. Soon, Gaston realises how truly complex the world is when it is not merely handed to you. BatB 2017 Spoilers.





	1. Chapter 1

_"Women and wine, game and deceit make the wealth small and the wants_ _great_ _."_

_-Benjamin Franklin_

* * *

With a resounding thud he hit the ground.

The impact reverberated through each of his bones, numbing aftershocks coursing through his bones and flesh and veins. To see or not to see, that is the question, for he did not remember closing his eyes; but memory now seemed like such a distant concept as his mind faded, seeped, spilled away from his non-continuous body. It was the pain of a thousand wounds.

And yet soon the pain was gone and there was nothing more to be felt. He thought his final thought (which you will imagine that no one will ever know). His lungs heaved a final breath. And within his broken chest Gaston's heart hammered its last beat, unheard and in vain.

Beneath looming pines and among blooming buds he laid on the cusp of death. Dying, very nearly dead, as a coldness overtook his limbs…

Footsteps.

The cold began to retract suddenly, replaced by the heat of his blood as his heart drummed with power, rib cage reconstructing and freeing his lungs of pressure. Unconsciously, Gaston inhaled the cool evening air, sweeter than any gift of man. Pain reappeared and disappeared in tandem with the dampness about his skull, until soon he could recall the fundamentals.

 _I am Gaston_ , firstly. Then:  _I was atop a castle. I fell. I am alive, but I shouldn't be._

And then: sight.

The sun was more powerful-even at sunset-than it had ever been, and above him, fine gothic buttresses cut the sky into slices while grasses and wildflowers danced against his skin in the wind. If Gaston were a Romantic, it would have been tragically beautiful.

But he was not, and so with the distinct feeling of a miracle, he stood, gazed skyward at the castle above. Now, Gaston had very little mathematical ability, but the number of feet that he estimated he fell left very little room for survival and even less a sudden recovery. For a moment he stood and pondered this, but upon turning around to gather his bearings, he came face to face with a familiar figure.

"Agatha?"

It was most certainly Agatha, but she looked far different from the town hag with whom he was familiar. Her eyes were bright and young, and on her back she carried a long, ornate cloak. Perhaps he had died. Perhaps this was a trip into the netherworld.

"Gaston," She said cryptically, unblinkingly. "I have saved you; you are not to die."

"Oh," Gaston shrugged indifferently. Perhaps in other circumstances, he would be shocked, but despite his sudden health his head throbbed painfully, and all he wanted was to lie down. Whatever had happened, and however Agatha was involved, he would contemplate later, along with the suddenly reconstructed castle and hustle and bustle he could hear in the distance. "I should probably be going, then."

"But during your life," continued Agatha, "you have devalued the lives of others to your own gain; and in particular, you have ignored the legitimacy of those fairer than your kind. You have been shallow, seeking only beauty and duty. In their name, have you made threats and even murdered. It is shameful."

Surely this was a dream. "Agatha," said Gaston. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

"For your crimes, and in exchange for saving you from death, you shall be cursed."

Gaston suddenly felt delirious panic rise in his throat. "Cursed? What? No-"

"And so it shall be until you have found it within your capabilities to love someone-and to earn their love in return."

Before Gaston had any chance to react, there was a blinding white light, more fierce than the lightning; soon he was engulfed in it, time stretching and binding before his eyes, so forceful that he closed his eyes…

And when he reopened them, he was lying on the ground once more, facing the bruise-colored evening sky for the second time that day. Agatha was gone, no trace of her remaining.  _Well_ , thought he.  _It must have been a dream_.

But as he stood to begin the trek down the mountain, he soon realized that something was...different. Something was wrong. The world around him seemed inexplicably larger. When he looked down his body to examine himself, Gaston let out a rather girlish shriek.

Girlish indeed, for Gaston's body was now that of a woman's.

He wore a long, burgundy dress with white laced cuffs; against his ribcage he felt the brutally tight hug of what could only be a corset; and all together his frame had taken on curvier, feminine qualities. Dashing over to a nearby puddle of water, Gaston kneeled down and examined his reflection. His jawline was significantly softer-no longer the powerful, chiseled chin like before-and his dark hair was long and tied with a ribbon on his back. When he stood and examined the tree by which he stood, he estimated he had lost a half a foot of height, perhaps even more.

And when he uttered "Dear God," he found his voice had settled in his throat, soprano in kind. The feeling was foreign to someone so used to having his baritone voice trapped in his chest.

Certainly, he recognized himself, for many of his features were nonetheless similar, but there was no mistaking it: either this was a hellish nightmare or Agatha had turned him into a woman.

In the distance, he could hear something going on in the castle. They sounded vaguely like the sounds of celebration, perhaps shouting and cheering. Desperately, he tried to remember the events that he lead up to his fall. Closing his eyes, he saw darkness and rain, crumbling rock, his handgun in his palm… the Beast! With three bullet wounds it surely could not have survived. (But, then again, Gaston had survived, despite his current circumstances.)

Perhaps the castle was celebrating the Beast's death; he'd expect them to be more somber, though, given that he himself had been witnessed tumbling hundreds of feet to his death. Belle was probably in the palace, dutifully awaiting and hoping for Gaston's return so she, free of the Beast's sorcery, could become Gaston's wife. A tear on her cheek, disregarding the festivities, wishing only that there must not be sacrifice.

Gaston had a mind to march up to the castle this instant and clear up the confusion, but he soon realized that, in his current state, it would do absolutely no good. In fact, there was no explanation he could possibly offer.

He ran over Agatha's words in his head:  _devaluing lives to your own gain_. _..legitimacy of those fairer...until you have found it within your capabilities to love someone-and to earn their love in return…_

Well, she made the conditions clear enough. Gaston didn't know what she meant by devaluing and legitimacy, but to break this wretched curse, he would need to find someone to fall in love with and have her fall in love with him. All he would need to do was explain his predicament to the nearest young woman, tell her that he was truly the famous Gaston, cursed into a woman's body. The details were unimportant, for he'd figure that any woman would swoon at the mere mention of his name. It wasn't ideal, but it would work.

The question was, then...which woman? Not Belle...no, that'd be for when he's finally regained his masculine form. Perhaps one of the Bimbettes? (Or all three?) No, he'd have to wander into town for that, and it would be best to avoid crowds for now. A farmgirl, then. Some quaint young woman desperately hoping for a man to sweep her off of her feet.

As he passed the entrance to the castle to align himself with the path towards the village, he took notice of an enormous crowd gathering at the castle's base. Most of them were embracing and (for some bizarre reason) rubbing their faces in shock. Each were so absorbed in the commotion that Gaston could easily slip away, unnoticed. The details of the events were still blurry in his mind-the chronology hardly lined up-but in taking a quick glance at the crowd, no Beast was to be found. Perhaps he had done his job.

Before he turned back around, Gaston thought he saw LeFou among the crowd; if anyone were mourning, it'd surely be his loyal aide-de-camp. But he hadn't time to fret about that, for he needed to find the nearest female before sundown. What a funny story this would be someday.

Hope regained and fear subdued, he began sauntering down the mountainside, cursing that hag Agatha under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this first instalment. Being new to Ao3, I'm not entirely sure how everything works around here. I'd like to say that the idea of Gaston being cursed into a woman is a concept I saw somewhere as I was lurking about tumblr, but I cannot remember who said it. Whoever you are, credits to you. The rest of the story that I have planned, however, is, to my knowledge, entirely my own creation.


	2. Chapter 2

It was far more difficult than expected.

After having wandered aimlessly for the remainder of the previous evening to no avail, Gaston found himself lost among the tall pines. Capitulating to his headache, a small shelter created by the intersection of two felled trees served as his makeshift bed. He had spent the night in the bitter forest, without resources or warmth, and awoke in the morning to a chill, a dry throat, and an irritated stomach.

A local farmer, however, found him, to his fortune, when making his morning rounds of the land.

“What’s a young lass like you doin’ sleepin’ out here?” The man had balked. “Come with me and we’ll get you to someplace warm.”

Gaston didn’t protest, mostly for fear of hearing his own voice again. The people were more than hospitable, living in a small cottage by a stream and a few rolling hills upon which they grew rows of cabbage. The farmer’s wife supplied Gaston with a new dress while she hung up his own to dry, and though it was perhaps a size too big, he preferred the looseness of the blue frock. 

With the farmer, his wife, and their three sons (Gaston was disappointed to find out that they had no daughters), he ate breakfast, though he could certainly not stomach the amount of food of which he had previously been capable. The boys asked questions, and Gaston responded with vague answers between bites of egg. His visit came to an end after breakfast, whereupon he insisted that he had business elsewhere, but they nonetheless sent him off with his newly dried dress, a basket full of bread and cheese, and a cloak for warmth.

Sneering at himself in his reflection in the creek, he decided he resembled Little Red Riding Hood. It was enough to drive him in search of the next farm, preferably with a female presence, which is where we find him now: standing dejectedly next to a laundry line as the next farm girl stared at him in bewilderment. It was pathetic.

“Mademoiselle, I don’t know what rumors you’ve heard about me, but I simply must insist that you leave me alone at once.” With a graceful motion, she slung the linens over the laundry line, where a great white sheet flapped with agitation in the wind.

Gaston, who was rapidly finding his new physique to be impractical and uncomfortable, shuffled to the side of the laundry. “But I assure you: I am Gaston. Surely you’ve heard of me before!” 

The farmgirl, Jeanette, looked at him with a fierce scowl. “I’ve no idea who Gaston is, but I reckon he’s a man. And you’re simply not a man. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Turning on her heel, she picked up the empty laundry basket and carried it in the direction of the house.

“Wait!” Dashing across the pasture after her and very nearly tripping over his skirts in the process, Gaston gave one last attempt. Jeanette pitied him and allowed him a say.

“I realize you don’t believe me, but if you promise to fall in love with me, I will someday become a man once more and provide you with happiness beyond your wildest dreams.” He grinned. “No more farm life for you! As the bride of an army captain and huntsman, you will--”

“You’re insane,” concluded Jeanette. “Truly insane. Get off of the farm before I send the dogs after you.”

 Gaston could do no more. He knew better than to cause more ruckus than necessary, especially when he could do little explaining. After visiting two other farms prior to this and skirting around the topic of marriage with some nameless young women, he decided it best to merely state his case and see who would be most compliant. 

In the countryside, most are wary of strangers, but it seemed they were particularly wary of women claiming to be men and asking each available girl for her hand in marriage. 

Courage and willpower tearing at the seams, Gaston skirted from home to home, in pursuit of the impossible fruit until he was slapped, yelled at, or chased off the property. By mid afternoon his shoes were filthy, his skirts muddy and tearing, and his muscles aching with fatigue. And now, as he stopped to wait by a tree, he found the path that unmistakably led towards the village; he’d know it anywhere. As his luck with the women here had dwindled, he might as well venture into the familiar setting to regain his health and courage, as well as set up a plan.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time he arrived at the village’s gates, dusk had begun to settle. Lanterns flickered gold light at each home, casting long shadows down the dusty cobblestone roads. Despite not being the most lively hour of the day, the village was unsettlingly quiet. There was not a single word to be heard, no _clip clop_ of horseshoes, no children hurrying home for dinner. It was so quiet, in fact, that he could hear the groan of the mill wheel grinding wheat into flour in the distance.

Determined nonetheless, Gaston sauntered through town until coming across his home-away-from-home: the tavern.

The tavern was also unnervingly empty, save for the barkeep who sat behind the bar, idly cleaning one of the beer steins with a filthy rag. He hummed a forlorn but familiar tune, sighed, but with one glance up, scrambled to his feet.

“Mademoiselle!” He cried in surprise, setting the stein down with a loud _thunk_. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“For what else?” Scoffed Gaston. “I’m here for a drink.”

The barkeep, Monsieur Gagne, was a blonde and sallow man, usually so entranced by the liveliness of his tavern that he often lost track of his patron’s tabs as the night bore on.

Though Gagne gave him a peculiar look, he nonetheless poured a mug full of beer and slid it rather hesitantly towards Gaston. With one quick nod of thanks, Gaston put the stein to his lips and drank heartily; but when he set it down once more and the stein was half empty, he found his stomach churning uncomfortably. Gagne, on top of that, wouldn’t stop staring at him in frantic disbelief.

“So, Monsieur Gagne,” began Gaston, “The tavern is so sparse. Where is everyone this fine evening?”

If it were possible to look more bewildered, Gagne looked it. He leaned his round, pink face a little closer. “Mademoiselle, surely...you’re not from this village, are you?”

“No, I am,” retorted Gaston, taking another sip of beer.

“Then, forgive me, but why aren’t you with the others? I mean, the castle is hosting a ball befitting royalty for all men and women of the village. Everyone is celebrating.”

 Interest piqued, Gaston swallowed thickly. “Celebrating what?”

“Why, the return of the prince! And his wedding! I myself cannot join, for leaving such a tavern unattended would be, well, problematic. They’ve feasted and danced and sang all day!”

“What prince?” Gaston bawlked. “And what wedding?”

“News must travel slowly,” figured Gagne. “You see--and I hope you’ll believe me--a nearby castle was cursed for a long time, and the prince of the castle, well, he became a horrible beast until the curse was broken--” 

“How?” Implored Gaston. “How was it broken?”

“I can’t say I know. This is what I’ve heard from a few of the men who stopped back before the festivities--anyway: the curse was broken, and the prince and Belle--a young woman from this village--are to be married.” 

“Belle? And a prince?” Gaston spluttered.

“Do you know Belle?”

“No,” Gaston covered quickly. “I’m just surprised.”

 “It’s wonderful news, but I’m afraid the ordeal did not go without casualty. Captain Gaston, also of this village, apparently went berserk and fell to his death after trying to kill the beast. No one’s too upset--”

Gaston’s jaw unhinged.

 “--but there wasn’t a body to be found. A bit spooky.” Gagne had finished his story, and Gaston, staring at his now empty stein, was feeling light-headed.

 “I’ll be staying in one of the rooms tonight,” Gaston declared, his speech slurring.

 Gagne cleared his throat, flustered. “Yes, I’ll set one up for you, Mademoiselle…how should I call you?”

 A pounding headache forming at the base of his skull, Gaston glanced about until his eyes settled on a painting in the room’s corner, watching over with omniscient steel eyes, a sword in her hand, hair cut short.

 “Joan, umm…” he allowed himself a brief glance around the room until his eyes settled on the sets of antlers mounted on the wall. “Joan Ramure.”

 “Ramure?” Repeated Gagne. “An interesting surname indeed. Alright, Mademoiselle Ramure. This way, if you please.”

 Gaston felt his legs grow weary as he marched up the stairs behind Gagne. He was ferociously tired; the day had brought him so much that each new step he took, he felt his senses grow more dull and his eyelids more heavy. Soon he was in one of the rooms, the door clicking shut as he _finally_ disregarded Gagne, and the sweet, delicate, warmth of the pillow beneath his head and blanket over his body made it all too difficult to stay awake any longer…

And when he awoke, the sun shone with such vibrancy through the window that he knew he must have slept for a very long time. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his temples (for his head pounded viciously). But as he slipped out of bed, he remembered with an unpleasant jolt of who he was. It was then that the reality truly manifested itself to him.

 He was a woman. This was no dream, no trick of the mind. If he was being honest with himself, the past day he had been in complete denial, believing somehow that this would end very soon, and he’d wake up on the castle grounds, or maybe even actually be dead. He had not taken this curse seriously, had jeopardized himself, given away too much, even.

 Standing up, he took a glance in the mirror and examined himself. Being a much better reflector than a puddle of water, the mirror gave him a better grip on the situation. It was astounding how _small_ he appeared. This was, of course, the reason he had a rotten hangover--with a smaller body, he had a lower tolerance to alcohol (to his dismay). His shoulders were narrow, his waist small and his hips wide, accentuated by the stiff corset stil snugly fit under his dress.

 With a frown at his reflection, Gaston realized he needed a new course of action. Truly, he wanted his old body back. Pacing the room, he found it discontenting to walk with a smaller stride and to (as he bumped into the bed frame) run into furniture with his hips. It was furiously frustrating. But if he was going to return to his former self, he’d have to fulfill Agathe’s requirements and fall in love with someone.

Clearly, demanding love from some various women was not going to work. Even if he were to find a woman who prefered the company of other women, there would be no guarantee that either of them would enjoy each other's’ company before Gaston could be turned back. No, he’d have to look elsewhere.

 Taking a look in the mirror again, Gaston observed himself from a different angle. He was fairly attractive as a woman; as a man he had been handsome and well-built, but now he looked...elegant, beautiful, even. He would be sure to turn some heads in the village. Well, there was his answer.

 Dejectedly, Gaston realized that he would have to fall in love with another man, should he want his former self back. Was it entirely wrong? He had known _of_ men whose interest in women was limited, but never personally--yet this, Gaston concluded, was an entirely different situation. A temporary situation.  Not to mention, he often admired the qualities he observed in men: strength, courage, loyalty. His body was that of a woman’s, so technically, no rules were being broken. And as soon as it was all over, Gaston would make for the hills, or run away, or...something.

 For now, Gaston would play the role of a woman, observe his surroundings, and search for opportunities at every corner.

 With a huff, he recalled what Gagne had told him yesterday. The Beast was a prince? Normally, Gaston would call this the stuff of hearsay and legends, but in his current predicament, anything seemed possible. His stomach churned with fury at the thought of Belle, worshiped by all, accepting gifts and dances and congratulations from the humbled villagers who, days prior, had very nearly thrown her and her father into the insane asylum. How wretched.

When Gaston arrived downstairs, he found Gagne polishing some of the silverware. He gave him a nod. “Good morning, Mademoiselle Ramure. I trust you slept well?”

 Gaston glanced about. “Who?”

“Tired indeed, Mademoiselle,” he chuckled. “I don’t know if you’ve any place to go, but you’re welcome to have breakfast here. There’s a market outside, too. Some of the villagers have returned from the castle.”

 Yes, Gaston had named himself yesterday. Ramure for the surname (he must have been quite tired) and...what was the Christian name? Jeanette? No, that was the girl from yesterday. Jene? No, no…

 “My sister’s name is Joan, too,” said Gagne when there had been a long bout of silence.

That was it! Joan! Well, not the best name to have picked, but it would do.

 “She herself lives in Paris--the only one in my family to have left this village. Curious, what some people will do, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Gaston, uninterested. “You said some of the villagers have returned?”

 “They have. A couple of merchants, I believe, but many of the farmers remain in the palace. I don’t blame them. I’m sure they’re eating more food than they’ve seen in their whole lives.”

 “Interesting. Well, I’ll be on my way, then--”

“You won’t stay for breakfast? I’m happy to--”

 “No, I really should be--”

 Gagne huffed. “Let me at least pack it for you.” From a shelf he produced a basket, which, in the blink of an eye, he filled with bread, cheese, and even fruit--a generous gift.

 Gaston accepted the basket gingerly, gave a quick nod and meek smile of thanks (meek, Gaston realized, was a trait he’d have to gain) and left the tavern quickly, soon free of the musty air and alcohol-scented wood-work. Briefly, it occurred to him that he hadn’t paid a single cent for the night in the tavern, but Gaston dismissed it: Gagne was always so forgetful.

The day was bright and blue as it neared eleven o’clock, and only then did Gaston’s stomach remind him of how utterly starving he was.

 A few villagers were roaming the roads, venturing between stalls selling goods; in the distance, a young man was leaving town atop his horse, possibly embarking on a hunting trip by the looks of his supplies (oh, how he _missed_ hunting!); and standing beside a docile pony and a rowdy horse was a man making quite a ruckus as he tried to tame the latter. The black stallion gave a ferocious kick in the man’s direction, but he spun on his heel in alarm and stepped away just in time.

 When he turned, however, facing Gaston’s direction, he nearly dropped the basket in shock. The man with the two steeds was LeFou--and it was just enough to allow him to realize that the horse was his own. Of _course_ , his steed was still alive--even if Gaston presumably wasn’t. LeFou had returned it to the village, then: did he intend on keeping it? Was that not a bit presumptuous?

 Gaston squinted, trying to study LeFou’s expression. Was he mourning Gaston’s death? Or was he among the jubilant? And why in God’s name did he suddenly have such a hideous mustache? Before he could pass any judgements, LeFou turned back around, tending to the horses.

 Figuring he couldn’t very well approach the man at this moment, Gaston ventured towards a lone tree on the outskirts of the village, basket in tow. Sitting down, he observed the village at a distance, watching as the day passed over the town, more a ghost than a participant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that there's not much in the way of dialogue yet, but I promise that'll pick up soon. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence! I've officially seen the movie three times now. Wow. Thanks for all the kudos and comments in the past, as it's been a huge encouragement as I research the history of stoves for this chapter. Also, if any of you are looking for some entertainment, look up the 2017 Swedish version of "Gaston." Trust me, it's worth it.

Gaston’s horse was beautiful. He stood a great fifteen and a half hands tall, and beneath his sleek black coat were magnificent muscles. Jean, like his master, was a steed envied by all, save LeFou, who always seemed to think his pony to be exceptional in some regard that Gaston couldn’t fathom.

Perhaps it was soft-hearted of him, but Gaston loved his horse, who was faithful and brave and had been instrumental in bringing Gaston back from war in one piece. With his wealth he had outfitted the horse with a fine leather bridle and saddle, and Jean the stallion was both fearsome and dignified all at once. 

Unable to be far from his companion for very long, Gaston had snuck into the small stable behind LeFou’s home. It was more of a small shelter than any real barn, but without a nearby pasture, the horse and pony had been temporarily stored there.

It was nearing late afternoon, so LeFou would be preparing dinner indoors, giving Gaston plenty of time to reobtain his horse. Would anyone question him as to why he was riding a dead man's horse? Perhaps, but he’d just have to claim he’d found a similar black horse, or produce another, unlikely excuse.

As Gaston neared the stalls, he noticed Jean was skittish, probably frightened. Beside him, LeFou’s pony, Therese, was happily chomping away at some feed. Silently, Gaston approached his horse.

 “It’s me, boy,” he cooed, extended a hand. “Sorry about the appearance change, but it’s still me.”

 Jean balked and whinnied, rearing briefly--but Gaston knew his horse and knew that he was often cautious around strangers and too proud to give consideration to merely anyone. Gaston, however, was no stranger and refused to be treated as such.

 “Come now, Jean,” Gaston said firmly, snatching up a half-eaten apple from the ground and placing it in his palm. “I might look different but I’m still Gaston and you’re still my horse.”

 Jean eyed the apple with interest, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the gift and the giver. Overcome with temptation, Jean snatched the apple from Gaston’s palm and neighed with delight.

“That’s it,” Gaston exclaimed jovially, raising himself onto his toes to pet Jean’s neck. “That’a boy. Let’s get you out of here.” LeFou had removed the saddle and bridle, both of which were hanging upon a stake protruding from the outside of the stall.

Gaston fumbled for the latch and unlocked the stall. As quickly as possible, he lifted the saddle, unwavering at its weight, and slung it over his steed’s back, fastening and buckling it with second-nature reflexes. With the bridle he did the same, eager at the thought of once more having a means of transportation. Gripping the horn of the saddle, Gaston lifted his foot to the stirrup--only to find himself too short to reach.

 He attempted again, jumping off the ground to gain some height. To no avail were his efforts, for he slipped and fell, landing on a stack of hay, bruising nothing more than his patience and his pride. Jean whinnied again in agitation, overturning a pail of water with a kick.

 “Dammit!” Gaston cried furiously. Picking up the capsized bucket from the small puddle it created and using it as a step stool, he made one last effort to leap onto the saddle. Sadly, this also failed: a familiar voice had startled him--and now he was once more in the hay, the broad, clean, blue sky staring apathetically back at him.

 The voice, of course, belonged to LeFou. Gaston would know its tenor timbre absolutely anywhere.

 “Mademoiselle?” LeFou had gasped in surprise as some wench was in the midst of clambering onto his horse.

 Gaston had sincerely wanted to avoid meeting LeFou in this state for as long as possible for the sake of keeping his lies in a neat fashion. Deciding enough was enough, Gaston scrambled to his feet, wiping the dirt off of his skirts; and before he could help himself, he met LeFou’s concerned gaze.

 And it took not a moment for LeFou’s jaw to hit the ground.

  _Oh, God_ , thought Gaston in a panic. _He can see the resemblance. If anyone could, it’d be him._ There was no feasible explanation for this, so he knew he would have to rely on LeFou having some level of disbelief.

 LeFou was visibly floored. His round eyes were wide with shock and his breath seemed perpetually stuck in his lungs, as if exhaling would set free some caged beast. And above his lip sat a thin moustache, the mere ghost of which Gaston had seen in the past. LeFou had grown it in, what, three days? It looked ridiculous, Gaston decided, and drew far too much attention to his mouth…

 “Is that your horse? Mademoiselle?” LeFou asked meekly, clearing his throat no less than three times.

 Saying yes would raise more questions. Saying no would peg him a thief.

 “I don’t know what you mean…” was the only thinkable answer. Gaston huffed indignantly, flipping his dark locks over his shoulders.

 LeFou merely stood and stared at Gaston, narrowing his eyes into slits as he looked Gaston up and down. But suspicion turned suddenly into something darker and far more unreadable.

 “You don’t happen to have a brother, do you?” LeFou asked carefully.

 “No,” Gaston answered instantly. His mouth was cotton-dry and he became dehydrated of rationality. Of _course_ LeFou would never guess, but of _course_ he’d recognize his features. How could he not? He still possessed the same, stick-straight and proud demeanor, an impeccable jaw and high cheekbones, even if his entire body had taken on altogether feminine qualities. (How he _yearned_ to be tall again.)

 “I don’t have a brother,” Gaston continued. “But I do have somewhere to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Gaston yanked on Jean’s bridle, but the horse balked and consecutive tugs did nothing.

 “S-sorry, but that’s not your horse, you can’t just _take_ it.”

 “Is it _your_ horse?” Gaston snapped, and confidence renewed, straightened to his full height (which put him nose to nose with LeFou).

 Affronted, LeFou took a step back, then, overcome with something unidentifiable, looked away.

 “Kind of, you could say. If the horse belongs to anyone, it’s to me. And he’s not for sale, if you’re wondering.”

 “Well, I’m in need of a horse and you already seem to have a pony. Anyway, it’s not like you could ride this horse, anyway,” Gaston taunted. “You’re simply too short.”

 “We’re the same height,” LeFou deadpanned.

 “Yes, but don’t I look dashing beside this steed?” Gaston retorted effortlessly. “I think he and I are a good pair.” A pathetic argument, but if it got LeFou to leave him alone just long enough for him to take the horse and leave…

 “ _Dashing_ isn’t how I’d put it.”

 “Really?” Gaston was genuinely astonished. He would probably need an abacus to count the number of times LeFou had called him dashing; LeFou was a man who was highly talented at administering compliments that were well-placed and always rang with truth.

“No, I don’t believe I’ve ever called a woman _dashing_ before. You look more cunning, to me. Now,” he approached Gaston and, back and legs straight like a particularly unassuming cadet, LeFou gave a small nod in lieu of any other, more formal greeting.

 “I don’t know who you are or why you’re trying to steal my horse, but I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m LeFou.”

 “I’m, uh, Joan Ramure,” Gaston said quickly. “As for the horse--”

 “You said you needed to be somewhere, but I’d be willing to let you stay for the night. I’ve got an extra room.”

 This was especially tempting. Among the numerous times it had been too cold or too dark to venture home, LeFou had always kept an extra cot available for Gaston when he needed it. It was wonderfully comfortable, with a thick blanket and a real, feather-stuffed pillow.

 “But we’ve just met,” Gaston countered, not wanting to gain the reputation of a woman of ill repute during his first few days in the village. “And wouldn’t it be improper?”

 LeFou gave a brief burst of laughter and doubled over with the humor of inside joke he seemed to share only with the ghosts in the room. “Improper? Not with me. No, no, certainly not.” He giggled again, but managed to compose himself. Though Gaston had not a single inclination as to why it would not be seen as improper for a young woman to stay in a home with a man she presumably did not know, Gaston was exhausted, yearned for a familiar bed, and would only put up as many pretenses as were required.

 Straightening his expression, LeFou continued: “In all honesty, I’m long overdue for some genuine generosity. There’s an inn, if you’d rather not, but you’re welcome to stay here. We’d just better keep it to ourselves, if you don’t want the villagers talking.”

 Gaston pretended to consider this. “I’ll take your offer, Monsieur LeFou. And sorry about the horse. It’s just that I have to…”

 “Have to…?”

 “Never mind,” Gaston said flippantly as he followed LeFou into the house. “It’s unimportant.”

 “I’m in the middle of making dinner,” LeFou gestured to the small wood-burning stove, atop which a pot of soup was simmering. “I have nothing better than soup and bread, Mademoiselle Ramure.”

 “Call me Joan, please,” instructed Gaston, who didn’t know if he could survive LeFou dragging him through pleasantries for hours.

 “All right, Joan. I fear I’m not much in the way of a hunter.” LeFou guffawed listlessly. “Actually, the man I used to hunt with once told me ringing a bell at the bucks would have made less noise than I did on my own. But in truth, I just didn’t like doing the shooting.”

 Gaston had known this. But insulting LeFou’s hunting ability had always seemed less brutal than insinuating he had a weak nerve.

“I’m not too shabby a hunter myself,” Gaston boasted. “I can do some of it for you.” Surely if LeFou saw a woman with guts enough to slay a deer, he, too, could muster the courage.

 “Oh, no,” LeFou insisted, giving the stew a stir. “You don’t need to do that. I wouldn’t even want you to. It can be dangerous.”

 “Dangerous?” Gaston scoffed. “Not a chance. Even so, a little danger is good for the spirit every now and then--”

 A knock came at the door, cutting his sentence short. LeFou peeked out of the window, and upon seeing the guest, turned on his heel and pointed to the ladder that led to the attic.

 “Go up there,” He instructed. “Just for now.”

 With a roll of his eyes, Gaston obeyed and scrambled up the ladder and out of sight; but curiosity piqued, he listened carefully, stifling coughs of dusty air.

 “Stanley,” LeFou said warmly. “It’s nice to see you.”

 Funny. Gaston couldn’t recall any time LeFou and Stanley had ever interacted aside from in the tavern.

 “Bonjour,” responded Stanley. “I was wondering if you’d join me for dinner. I’ve bought venison and the vintner was at the market today.”

 “Oh, Stanley,” LeFou said affectionately. “You know I’d love to, but I’m already making dinner.”

 “Then let me join you. I’ll bring the wine here.”

 LeFou laughed sheepishly and sputtered some protests. “That sounds...wonderful, but I just can’t tonight. Sorry.”

 Silence, then:

 “Is everything alright? LeFou?”

  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

 There was another, longer period of silence and Gaston wonderred if one of them had been offended. He also wondered how much longer LeFou was going to make him wait in the musty attic.

 “Another time, Stanley,” LeFou said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. But it’s only been a few days.”

 “No, I understand,” Stanley responded. “You can talk to me, though. When-whenever you need to.”

 “Thank you, Stanley,” He whispered, almost inaudibly, and Gaston had to hold his breath to hear anything. “I really appreciate it.”

 “You don’t deserve me,” Stanley taunted fondly.

 “I know, I know,” LeFou huffed with good nature and the front door creaked open. “Now get out of here before I have to kick you out.”

 "Hey, hey--no pushing! I’m on my way!”

 “Goodbye, Stanley.”

 “Until next time, LeFou.”

 The door shut, and Gaston took that as his cue to clamber down the ladder and back onto the ground floor.

 “I thought he’d never leave,” Gaston lamented, straightening out his dress. “Anyway, what were we discussing? Danger? Yes, well, when you’ve hunted as much as I have, danger is--LeFou, are you listening?”

 LeFou was most certainly not listening. His gaze, though fixed on Gaston, was distant and his face was a vibrant tomato red. Upon his lips rested a slight, coy smirk that told far more about his train of thought than Gaston might have been able to observe.

 “Sorry, Joan. What were you saying?”

 “Who was that?” Gaston asked innocently, curious as to LeFou’s response.

 “Oh, um… that was Stanley, a good friend of mine,” LeFou answered, running his fingers absently over his lips.

 “I see,” Gaston remarked suspiciously, and LeFou turned a half a shade of red darker.

 Then it occurred rather suddenly and uncomfortably to Gaston that LeFou had wasted absolutely no time in replacing Gaston. Had he truly only needed a handful of days to grieve over the man with whom he had served France and with whom he had hunted and drank and traversed the countryside on horseback? Yes, they had been on less than pleasant terms before Gaston had “died,” but stress was high at the time and he wouldn’t blame himself for what had been said.

 Regardless, it ultimately didn’t matter what LeFou thought of Gaston, dead or alive, because Gaston had much more dire matters to attend to. It might even have been worth it to simply tell LeFou of his true identity if it would save any time or make things less complicated.

 “It looks like the soup is finished,” LeFou said jovially and as he was turning away, something occurred to Gaston.

 He was struck very suddenly with a wonderful idea. A horrible, wonderful, perfect, flawless idea. On many levels he found the concept disturbing, but his motives were strong enough to overcome any inhibitions.

 “Here you are,” LeFou said warmly, pouring soup into two bowls and pulling out a chair at the table for Gaston.

 It would be easy enough, he ventured, because LeFou was enough a rabbit as Gaston was a hunter, and the less effort the better, the sooner he was a strapping young man again, the better. And with LeFou’s unyielding admiration for Gaston, what could possibly be more simple than for a woman of similar disposition to be suddenly and completely available?

 With a sly smile, Gaston figured he’d be back to his former self by the end of the week. How did one go about wooing again? Ah, yes. Flattery.

 “It smells wonderful,” Gaston beamed. “Now, LeFou. You’re right: we did get off to a poor start. Please--tell me about yourself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this first instalment. Being new to Ao3, I'm not entirely sure how everything works around here. I'd like to say that the idea of Gaston being cursed into a woman is a concept I saw somewhere as I was lurking about tumblr, but I cannot remember who said it. Whoever you are, credits to you. The rest of the story that I have planned, however, is, to my knowledge, entirely my own creation.


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